


More Than Bliss

by tristesses



Series: Ball and Chain [1]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Chastity Device, Dom/sub, F/M, Femdom, Hurt/Comfort, Masochism, Mind Games, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Subspace, Whipping, discussion of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-10
Updated: 2012-09-10
Packaged: 2017-11-13 23:00:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/508653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristesses/pseuds/tristesses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time she sees Loki again, Natasha nearly puts a bullet in his skull. The second time, he threatens to kill her. By the third time, she has him on his knees and begging for her touch, and what's more, he <i>likes</i> it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More Than Bliss

**Author's Note:**

> My working summary for this fic was "Natasha and Loki find True Love via kink," and that still is pretty much what this is.
> 
> Written for the Kink Bingo square "chastity devices". And for those curious, [this (very NSFW!)](http://www.chastity-uk.co.uk/gallerytubes/sentinel1.jpg) is what Loki's cage looks like.

Natasha has a whole floor at Avengers Tower set aside for her use, but she still keeps safehouses in the city, all run by elderly Russian landlords she knows from long ago. Paranoia, Clint calls it. He's not wrong, but it's not quite true. She loves her team more than she thought she could in just a few short years, yet Natasha is a solitary creature, and sometimes she just needs a break from Stark's yammering and her buried fear of Banner's hidden passenger. So, the safehouse.

This one is her favorite, a top-floor flat in a ragged old building, run-down but still respectable, in a part of town where she's never once heard a Soviet Russia joke. Out on the street, Natasha tucks her hair under her knit cap, and jimmies the lock to the lobby expertly; the landlord's kept it padlocked ever since the burglary six years ago, and Natasha still hasn't picked up a copy of the key. She steps out of the chilly fall wind and makes her way up the stairs, already looking forward to brewing some tea and curling up with a good book. As she unlocks her door, Natasha freezes instinctively. Something's wrong.

Her hands instantly go to her gun, and she holds it steady, scanning the room for intruders. Nothing seems out of place; her chair with the knitted afghan thrown over it hasn't been touched, the kitchen is pristine, as it was when she left it, and she can see nothing suspicious reflected in the mirror hung over the inoperative fireplace. Edging along the wall, careful to cover all angles, Natasha makes her way to the bedroom. Still just like she left it, covers a little rumpled, her maroon bedspread folded back to show the flowered flannel sheets beneath. She exhales, and very nearly relaxes, and then she sees the bathroom door. It's open.

Very quietly, Natasha makes her way to the door. There's a shadowy shape in there, vaguely backlit by the seashell nightlight plugged into a wall socket: a tall man in a long coat, looking at himself in the mirror, his hands clasped behind his back. He doesn't seem to have noticed her. Natasha sizes him up for a moment, then switches on the light.

She's expecting it, so she doesn't flinch, but his eyes were used to the dark, and he squeezes them shut for a moment before opening them and spinning to face her; that handful of seconds is all she needs.

"Loki," she says, keeping her voice even.

"Agent Romanoff," he greets her. He gestures to the gun. "Are you going to shoot me?"

"I'm considering it," she says. "What are you doing here?"

Loki says nothing for a long moment, only regards her with thoughtful pale eyes. She repeats herself.

"Don't you _want_ to shoot me?" he asks, sounding genuinely curious. "Don't you want to kill me?"

"There's not many people I really want to kill," she answers, deliberately sidestepping the question, and he shakes his head, his lips quirking in a strange, sad smile.

"Here," he says, and to Natasha's astonishment, he shrugs out of his coat and begins to unbuckle his vambraces. "I'll make it easier for you."

Loki strips to the waist while Natasha stands there, frozen, trying to guess what the hell his game is, her gun trained on his chest. He is very pale, leanly muscled like a runner, a few thin scars scattered along his torso. Knife scars, she thinks, long and purposefully made. Done by an opponent, or by him?

"Some spells require the blood of the sorcerer performing them," he says, recognizing her pattern of thought. Natasha is a little disturbed by that. He taps his sternum. "Shoot me here. A bullet through the heart will kill me as surely as it would any mortal, I promise you."

"I'm not here to help you commit suicide," she snaps, "and I don't think that's why you're here, either. What do you want?"

"Ah, but would it be suicide, if I forced your hand? Or would it be murder on your part?" His eyes gleam in the artificial light. "Would it matter to you either way? You're already quite an accomplished killer, after all."

"Don't try to bait me," she says, her eyes narrowing. "It's not going to work."

"No." He frowns. "I suppose it won't."

For a moment, Loki does nothing but stand there, looking over her shoulder into the distance. Natasha advances a step, then another, careful to keep out of his reach. Experimentally, she makes a show of cocking the gun. Loki jumps at the click, and looks down at her, the frown line between his eyes deepening.

"This was a mistake," he says abruptly, and disappears, just like that, without even a flicker or a cloud of smoke. Natasha blinks, pointing her gun at her bathroom wall.

"Well, that was weird," she says aloud.

****

. . .

Natasha has every intention of calling it in the next morning, but when she wakes, she puts it off. Instead, she goes into the bathroom and stands in the same place she had last night, legs braced and gun raised, clad in her pajamas with messy hair and morning breath. Her memory of the night before feels strange, almost hallucinatory; she stands there, and thinks, _Loki was here, just a few feet away. I was here, and Loki was there, and he didn't kill me._

No, he didn't kill her. He asked her to kill him. Natasha has spoken to suicidal people before. She's talked them off ledges, coaxed the knife from their hands, even been witness to the sickening sound of a gunshot and the scream of a loved one lost; she knows the look, how the desperation shines from the eyes, anguish lying heavy in the lines of the face. She doesn't think Loki was faking.

Natasha heaves a sigh, switches on the safety of her gun, and lays it down on the counter. While brushing her teeth, she goes over what she knows about Loki's whereabouts over the past few years: he'd broken out from Asgardian prison just a few months after he and Thor had left Earth, and gone underground, not so much as popping his head out until nearly a year had passed. Then he'd gone after Asgard - Thor had never shared details, and Natasha never asked for any - and later fled to Earth, seeking asylum in Latveria. (Natasha snorts at that; anyone who thinks Victor von Doom will help them out of the goodness of his heart is an idiot, but then, she doubts Loki remembers that people do that sort of thing, anyway.) There, he'd presumably helped Doom in exchange for accommodation, though S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn't know how, and then…

And then he showed up in Natasha's apartment about eight months later, with nary a peep in the interim. That isn't what concerns Natasha, though. What's important here is that out of the many, many threats she and the Avengers have faced between the Chitauri invasion and now, none of them have had a thing to do with Loki. That's food for thought.

Natasha finishes washing up, dresses, eats breakfast, cleans the place. She locks up and starts the long walk back to Avengers Tower, her hands in her pockets. People joke about her stoicism, asking how long it took for Stark to program her, thinking she's some ruthless automaton who kills on command. She's not. Trust is difficult for her, true, and she knows her moral center skews slightly left of what most would consider normal, but she has friends, brothers-in-arms, people she loves. She believes in redemption; she believes in second chances. She's lived them, after all.

Natasha isn't going to tell Fury about Loki's visit. If the god drops by for another chat, she'll see what he truly wants, and depending on his answer, she'll alert S.H.I.E.L.D. then. Not yet.

****

. . .

A day goes by, then a week. Loki doesn't show up, and Natasha begins to wonder if their encounter was a fluke event. She's oddly disappointed by it; she had really wanted answers.

Ten days later, she decides to check out her primary safehouse, just in case he's been there. She doubts it; why wouldn't he come find her at Avengers Tower if he wanted to speak with her? But when she enters her place, the light is on in the bedroom, and she finds him without armor, stretched out long and lanky on the bed.

"That took you long enough," he says as soon as he hears her come in. His hands are folded on his stomach, and his eyes are closed. Vulnerable. Natasha suspects he's doing it on purpose.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," she says in reply. Her gun is in her hands, safety off and ready to fire; she's forgiving, not stupid. "I must have forgotten to put it in my calendar."

Loki laughs, that same derisive chuckle she remembers from the first time they'd met. "So sarcastic. I like that."

He sits up suddenly and swings his legs off the bed. Natasha goes very still, and slides her finger over the trigger. Loki's eyes drop to her gun, and he tenses minutely, then deliberately relaxes.

"Do you know why I've come here?" he asks. "Why, out of all the billions of mortals on this little planet, I've chosen you to be my executioner?"

_That's some assumption_ , Natasha thinks. Out loud, she says, "No idea. Why have you?"

"Very few people can match me in a game of wits," he says, examining her closely. Natasha nearly shivers under his gaze. "You are one of them. I underestimated you, it's true, but that only speaks to your expertise. You're quite the liar, Agent Romanoff."

"Why do you want to die?" she asks bluntly, and he flinches. Barely, but Natasha has a practiced eye, and she can see the brief fear in his posture before he covers it up with his usual affected sprawl.

"What reasons have you to prevent me?" he asks. "Your ledger drips with red, but mine overflows with it. Much of that is the blood of your own people, the people you're sworn to protect. Can you really look in the mirror knowing you've let their chance at retribution walk free?"

"That doesn't add up with what you've done here on Earth," she points out. "And you didn't answer my question."

He sneers at her.

"For all your pretty words, you still measure death in quantity, not value," he says bitingly. "And yet you're the worst of hypocrites; a thousand civilians could die at my hands and you wouldn't so much as blink, but if I laid a hand on Barton or Stark, you would call for my head on a pike."

Natasha stares at him. He's trying to manipulate her, obviously, but going about it from the wrong angle; a few years ago, this might have worked on her, but she's made her peace with her priorities. Her mind whirls, trying to make sense of this, and then it clicks.

"So that's it," she says. It's a leap, but she's nearly certain she's right. He frowns at her, and she continues, "Whatever you did in Asgard, you hurt someone, someone you care about, and you didn't mean to. And you regret it. You're guilty now because you've never felt guilty before, even for all those people you killed. They were just a number, but this person isn't."

She lowers her gun, sets it aside. "You want to die because you're not the monster you think you are."

His eyes are narrowed, his body so very still. Natasha shakes her head.

"I'm not going to kill you for that."

"I truly _loathe_ you," Loki snarls, and goes for her throat.

He's heavy and freakishly strong, and for a moment Natasha's adrenaline spike turns into panic, but she quashes her fear ruthlessly; without his armor, he has as many weak spots as anyone. Natasha uses these to her advantage, jabbing at his groin and throat, twisting away from his grip, using his own momentum against him. Loki is incredibly skilled, but he was trained as a mêlée fighter with swords and spears, not in martial arts, and she suspects he's not putting forth the effort he normally would, anyway. She gets him on his back with her forearm pressed against the fragile curve of his throat, one knee digging into his stomach, her other foot and hand pinning down his wrists. He glares at her, but Natasha is unmoved.

"I know what you're doing, and it's not going to work," she snaps. Where in life did she go wrong that she ended up here, playing therapist to a Norse god? "I can assemble the Avengers right now, if you push me, but I'm still not going to kill you."

"Liar," he whispers. "You have no way of contacting them without letting me go, and if you do, I _will_ kill you, I promise."

It was a feeble bluff, anyway. Natasha shakes her head slightly; she doesn't know what to do with him. She isn't lying when she says she doesn't want to kill him.

"What else do you want?" she asks him quietly. "Is it punishment you're looking for? I can give you that."

She means by turning him over to S.H.I.E.L.D., but Loki inhales sharply, swallows hard. Natasha blinks at the unexpected reaction.

"Could you?" he breathes. A mocking little smirk tugs at his mouth, but it's belied by his parted lips, his flushed cheeks. Suddenly, Natasha is thinking of the many methods of punishment and discipline she has in her repertoire, the kinds that emphatically aren't government approved.

"Is that what you want?" she asks him, her voice low. "Will that help you?"

Loki wiggles a little, and gets his wrists free from where she's pinned him. Natasha lets him, and slowly, almost hesitantly, he brings his hands to her waist.

"I don't know," he whispers, and it's the first honest thing she's ever heard him say. She slips her hand down to encircle the white column of his throat, and carefully squeezes, cutting off his airflow. Loki's eyes go very, very wide. He doesn't fight her, though his body trembles, his breathing raspy and short. After a long few moments, with Loki taut and shivering under her, Natasha lets him go. She rubs her thumb along his reddened skin, and Loki exhales shakily. He's going to bruise, she thinks, and finds the thought bizarrely pleasing.

"Decide," she orders him. Impulsively, she leans down and presses her lips to his ear, not so much a kiss as a promise. Loki shudders, and she likes that, too.

"When you do," she murmurs, "come and find me."

She sits up, resting her hands on his chest, and looks at him. He doesn't move, just looks back.

"If this is a game - " he starts, a threat in his tone, and she cuts him off.

"It isn't." At his guarded, skeptical look, she adds, "I promise."

"Why should I believe you?"

"You'll just have to trust me," she says, and stands up. Slowly, Loki props himself up on his elbows.

"You're leaving?" he asks, and she doesn't think she's imagining a disappointed note in his voice.

"For now," she says with a shrug, turning away. "You know where to find me."

He says nothing. At the door, with one hand on the doorknob, Natasha hesitates. She looks behind her to see Loki watching her, a long dark shape on the living room floor.

"I'll be back here in three days," she finally offers, and wonders if she'll regret it later. "Maybe I'll see you then."

"Maybe," Loki replies, his voice unreadable.

She shuts the door on his thoughtful face, and returns home. She checks in with S.H.I.E.L.D. to find she has no late-night assignments; she eats dinner, watches a movie with Clint, takes a shower. When she turns off the lights, she takes the memory of Loki quivering beneath her to bed.

****

. . .

He's manipulating her, and Natasha is playing right into his hands.

Of this she's nearly certain, by the time that third day rolls around. She's gone over the scenario a hundred times in her head, examining it from every angle, trying to get inside Loki's mind as best she can; she has a good track record so far, after all. None of it adds up completely, and that points to some sort of scheme on Loki's part. But Natasha cannot get the image of his face as she choked him out of her mind; there wasn't a single untruth in that expression, and of this, too, she is nearly certain. An untruth, however, isn't the same thing as a lie, especially from Loki, and to be safe, she hedges her bets; she tells Clint where she's going.

"You're giving me the location of your safehouse?" he asks, surprised, as they have drinks in a fancy bar on the other side of the city, undercover for the fun of it as a British couple gone holidaying.

"Yeah, well, it's not safe anymore," she says. "S.H.I.E.L.D. won't have my back this time. I need to know you'll be my backup if I need it."

"Of course I will," Clint promises. He doesn't ask any questions; they never do in situations like these, for they trust each other, but Natasha almost wishes he would. Using Clint as a cover to visit Loki doesn't sit right with her. She does it anyway. She's never been as nice as Clint.

On the day she promised to meet Loki again, Natasha very purposefully does not wear a scrap of leather or high-heeled boots. She's familiar with the traditional dominatrix costume, having worn it herself a time or two, and she appreciates the effect appearances have on people's perception of her, but Natasha doubts that the leather-and-latex would correlate to any Asgardian fetish wear, if there is such a thing. Besides, Natasha doesn't need or want a latex corset to be the one in control. It's a point of pride.

That is, of course, assuming that Loki isn't playing a game with her. Lightly, she touches her ear, and the hidden comm she's wearing just in case things go wrong, programmed to activate at her voice command; she'd taken care to make the code something she wouldn't say in regular conversation. She wonders idly if Loki would take offense, or if he'd be amused by her wariness. Both, maybe.

She doesn't have the chance to find out, because he's not there when she finally makes it to her flat.

Natasha stands in the middle of the room, her hands on her hips, faintly disappointed, and irritated with herself for it. There was a fifty-fifty chance that this would work out, anyway; maybe he failed to get what he wanted - Natasha is sure she told him nothing - and he decided not to come back. Why would he take the risk?

Natasha looks around one more time, then shrugs, turning to leave. No point in sticking around; this place doesn't feel like hers anymore.

"Good evening, Agent Romanoff," Loki says from the shadows, and Natasha jumps, pulling her gun from its holster and aiming it at his head in one fluid motion. Loki steps into the light, hands raised, a wry twist to his mouth. "This is becoming a habit of ours."

"Don't sneak up on me," she says, her heart pounding. She's more on edge than she thought she was.

"My apologies," he says, and sketches a little bow. Natasha raises her eyebrows, and slips her gun back in its place by her side.

"Apology accepted," she says. "I didn't think you'd come."

"Yes, you did." His voice is light and amused, his posture falsely relaxed, belied only by the instinctive way he keeps the wall to his back even as she circles him. All artifice. Natasha wants to strip him raw. "You knew I would. For the game, if nothing else."

"Is the game all this is?" she asks, and he shoots her a look, pensive, dark.

"What is it for you?" he counters.

Natasha studies him for a moment, and feels the corner of her mouth tilt in a small smile.

"I'm great at games," she says. "I always win."

"Do you indeed?" he laughs. "Come and play, then."

He spreads his arms in invitation, and Natasha takes his cue.

"Take off your clothes," she orders. He raises his eyebrows at her, challenging her already, and she stares him down. He holds her gaze as he undresses, all his many layers of leather and linen falling in a pile at his feet. 

She could guess his body shape from watching him in combat and what she saw that night in the bathroom, but it's much different to speculate than to know. The scars on his chest she knew about, the almost unearthly pale glow of his skin, but the narrowness of his hips, the muscle of his back, the small runic tattoo on his instep is all new. His fingers, long and quick, his black hair, longer now than she's ever seen it, draping over his white shoulders. Natasha bites her lip, then lets it go hastily, not wanting to show even that little clue to her inner thoughts. Lust. She lusts for him, and it's been such a long time since she's felt the need so strongly.

Loki knows it, and he wears a little smirk as he lets the last length of fabric flutter to the ground, stepping from the pile of discarded clothes to stand before her, naked. He looks smaller without his armor, slimmer.

"Now what?" he inquires.

"What do you want?" she asks in return. He frowns at her, and she elaborates, "What do you want me to do to you?"

He shrugs. "Anything you want."

"You've got to give me something," she says. "Likes, dislikes, limits…" 

Loki stares at her in disbelief, and then laughs, a sharp bark devoid of humor.

"Just what do you think this is, Agent Romanoff?" he asks her, circling her. Natasha shifts to the balls of her feet, ready to pounce, and feels the reassuring weight of her gun on her hip. "A child's game of sticks and stones? Playtime? Do you expect me to have a _safeword?"_

"I'm surprised you know what those are," she says, curling her hand into a fist, then relaxing. He stops at her side, and she doesn't have to look at him to see the sneer on his face.

"If I wanted a spanking and a few insults thrown at me," he spits, "I could have paid a whore for that."

That's enough. Time to give in.

Natasha spins with her quicksilver speed and strikes him, smacking him across the face with all of her considerable strength. Loki's head snaps to the side and he staggers back, falling against the wall. Natasha stalks up to him, and Loki stares up at her, a handprint blushing red on his cheek.

"I tried to do this the nice way," she says. "The right way. But you obviously don't want that." 

He opens his mouth, and she cuts him off. 

"And neither do I."

"Oh," he whispers. A smile flits across his face, there and gone as swiftly as his voice. "Oh, yes."

Natasha grabs him by his hair, winding it around her fingers, and drags him from the wall. He hisses in pain, but Natasha ignores it, flinging him across the kitchen floor, standing over him as he rolls onto his back, bracketed by her legs.

"I'm calling the shots," she informs him. "I'm going to do what I want, and you're going to do what I say. If you need me to do anything or to stop doing anything, say so, and if you toy with me I'll cut your throat."

Loki gasps, shuts his eyes, lets his head fall back against the tile.

"Don't move," Natasha warns him, and steps over him, going to the pile of clothes he left in the living room. Aside from magic, knives are his speciality, or so she's heard, and she finds several blades tucked away in slim sheaths, bundled in his rumpled cloak. She selects the one that looks least like a throwing knife, a sleek thing with a deadly curved blade and grooved, scissorlike handles, and goes back to the kitchen.

She takes in the view for a moment, leaning against the counter. Loki remains supine on the floor, his arms splayed and one knee tucked up; his fingers flex against the tile, his eyes still closed. He nearly opens them when she straddles him, but squeezes them shut before he can look at her fully. Sweet, but misguided.

"Tell me about this," she says, unsheathing the blade and tossing the leather pouch aside. Loki's eyes snap open, and go very wide when he sees what she's holding to his chest. He licks his lip.

"A dwarven-made knife," he says, hoarse. "Forged in the hearth of Eitri, a master of weaponry." A little smirk touches his lips. "I stole it."

"Why?" she asks, curious despite herself.

"I didn't want to pay for it."

She laughs, and he smiles, faltering only when she lightly drags the flat of the blade along his cheek; his breath catches, and he swallows convulsively.

"Did they catch you?"

His eyes shutter, blank and cold. "They sewed my lips shut."

"Hmm." She keeps her face neutral, and traces the curve of his lips with the tip of the blade. "People are cruel."

"Yes, so we are. I - ah!"

Loki twitches, and blood wells in the long slice she makes along his cheekbone, cutting through the mark her hand left there, a few fat red beads sliding down his cheek and dripping on the floor. His face - Natasha squirms a little at the look on his face, stunned and pained and aroused, and she eases down to lie flat against his chest, tucking her face into the curve where his neck meets his shoulder. He makes a little pleading noise, and Natasha presses her thigh between his legs, his cock stiff and warm against her body. Gently, she presses down upon it, and Loki gasps and clutches her hips.

"I - Natasha," he says, shocked, and twists to look her full in the eyes. Warmth floods her at the sound of her name in his mouth.

"Yes, Loki?" She nips at his earlobe, kisses his neck, not sparing him her teeth. He bucks against her, and she smiles. "If I ask you something, will you tell me the truth?"

"Possibly," he whispers, and shivers as she drags her nails down his chest, clawing red lines into his flesh. Sitting back astride his hips, she rocks against him, the denim of her jeans rough against his most sensitive skin, enjoying the little gasps she coaxes from him. Her underwear is soaked, her clothing too constricting; she's losing patience rapidly.

"Do you do this often? Submission, I mean, not sex."

"Oh, do you want to be special, Agent?" He laughs, a trembly little chuckle.

"I thought we were on a first-name basis."

"You only wish we were."

She slaps him again, not quite as hard, on the other cheek, and he shuts up. Swinging off him, she kicks off her boots, sliding out of her jeans and underwear. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Loki lick his lips, eyes gleaming in anticipation.

"You've got the right idea," she tells him with a little grin, and straddles his face. It occurs to her that he's going to bleed all over her thighs. It also occurs to her that she doesn't really care. His hands slide up her thighs to cradle her ass, drawing her down to his mouth. He laps at her once, twice, licking at her folds with slow, steady movements. Natasha runs her fingers through her hair, and sighs.

"Put your neck into it," she orders, and Loki does, arching closer to her, moving his head with the rhythm as he traces circles around her clit with his tongue. It's sinfully good, little jolts of pleasure racing through her nerves, coiling deep in her stomach. Bracing her hands on the floor, she pants, eyes half shut, and rolls her hips hard against his face. "Yeah, that's - _fuck."_

Natasha's body twitches as he sucks her clit into his mouth, teasing it with little swipes of his tongue. She thinks she hears him chuckle, and he wraps his arms around her hips to pull her tighter against him; moaning, she takes what she wants and just rides him, his tongue lashing her until she shudders and stiffens all over, her toes curling.

"Oh, _god_ ," she stutters, "oh god, oh - "

She rolls off him and lies flat on her back, gulping down air as her body quivers, and Loki smirks at her.

"Yes, I'm here," he quips, and it takes her a moment to put it together.

"That's not even funny," she says, smacking his shoulder, and he laughs. His face is flushed, shining with her slick, and his blood is smeared all across his cheek and jaw. The look suits him. Cupping his chin in her hand, she wipes some of the mess away before drawing her hand down, over his clavicle and the muscles of his chest and stomach, curling her fingers loosely around his cock. Loki whimpers at her touch, a true plea that makes her want to get back on his face and force him to go another round, and she tightens her grip.

"I like your cock," she tells him, stroking him slowly. Loki lies there and trembles, his mouth hanging open. "It's very nice. Has a good curve to it."

She rubs her thumb over the head of his cock, and Loki twitches and says in a tight whisper, "Stop."

"Really?" she asks incredulously, halting her movements. His mouth works, his eyes flicking around the room.

"No," he says. "Keep going."

"Good," she says. "I want to see you come."

This is true, but that moment of hesitation is intriguing. Natasha has a few suspicions about what it might mean. 

"If I didn't," she murmurs, "if I told you not to come, that I would punish you if you did, what would you do?"

Loki inhales sharply, holds it, exhales, and says, "Punishment is the purpose of this exercise, is it not? How would it be any different?"

"This would be a different kind of punishment," she tells him. She keeps her strokes rhythmic and smooth, spreading his pre-come with her thumb, tugging lightly at his foreskin on the downstroke, twisting a little on her way up. Loki lets his head thud against the floor and pants, whining a little on each exhale. "Because if you jerked yourself off when I told you not to, if you came without permission, I'd just have to lock you up, wouldn't I?"

Loki makes a strangled noise, his heels bracing firm against the floor, and every muscle in his body pulls taut.

Natasha says, her breath against his ribs making him shiver, "I'd have to take away your rights to orgasm, I wouldn't even let you touch yourself - "

Loki's body jerks, and his hand flies up to cover his mouth, his come arcing across his stomach and over Natasha's hand. She sits back, wiping it off on a dish towel, as Loki uncurls, slowly sitting up.

"Interesting," she says finally, and he glares at her, the fury in his eyes taking her aback.

"Don't you _dare_ mention this to anyone," he snarls, and she sees embarrassment there, too, fueling his anger.

"I have no one to tell," she points out. "No one cares what I do in my spare time. Or who."

A blatant lie, but Loki doesn't call her out on it. He stands, shaking still, and glances away from Natasha when she does as well.

"Look at me," she orders. He refuses, and she says again, her voice like a whip, " _Look at me_ , I said."

Loki looks at her like he couldn't stop himself if he tried, and Natasha pulls him to her, curls her hand around the nape of his neck, and kisses him deeply, tasting herself mingled with his blood on his lips. He hesitates, then kisses her back, opening his mouth to her, resting one hand on her hip. Finally, she pulls back, lips swollen, her heart pounding.

"Meet you back here in three days," she says, and he nods, his body still stiff against her. Digging her nails into the muscle of his arm, she takes his lower lip between her teeth and clamps down on it until blood spills, metallic in her mouth, and feels him go loose in her arms. Pulling away, she takes in his heavy-lidded eyes and the relaxed set of his shoulders. A true masochist. She can't image that was an easy way to grow up, not in hyper-masculine, war-loving Asgard.

"Three days," she repeats, patting his arm, and steps back, bending down to gather her things. When she looks back up, he is gone, taking all his belongings with him.

No, that's not true; the knife is still there, his blood shining wetly on the edge of the blade. Natasha picks it up, looks at it thoughtfully. She wonders how much of his story is true, how much of anything he says is true.

"Only one way to find out," she says to herself, and wipes off the knife before tucking it in her coat pocket.

Three days, and she has shopping to do.

****

. . .

Two days later, she's sent on a mission to İstanbul. Natasha is good at compartmentalizing, focused only on the objective, her partner's survival, and her own, and she doesn't allow herself to think of Loki until she's on her return flight, tapping the rough draft of her report into an encrypted laptop. She'd missed their rendezvous. What will he be like next time she sees him?

She _is_ certain she'll see him again; for better or for worse, he's latched on to her, and she doubts that standing him up once will take him off her scent. The only question is his reaction: will he be flippant or furious? He's unpredictable, and Natasha won't lie to herself; she finds him interesting. Dangerous, yes, but interesting. It frightens her. She poses a question to herself, and takes solace in the answer, in knowing that she wouldn't hesitate to cut him down, should such a thing become necessary.

She hopes it won't.

****

. . .

Early the next morning, on the outside patio of a pâtisserie she's sampling at Maria's request, Loki catches up with her. He slides into the seat across from her, clad in a dark suit cut in the English style, his tie a deep, dappled green, black leather gloves on his hands. A thin scabbed line arches over his cheek. Natasha peers at him over her bug-eye sunglasses; by habit, she tries not to attract attention in public, but so much for that.

"Did you really think I wouldn't find you?" he asks her pleasantly. "This would be the second time you've tricked me; no more."

"It wasn't a trick," she says, and slides the sunglasses down her nose, showing the livid marks along her eye socket, the swelling on her cheekbone. "I had an assignment."

Loki goes still when she bares her bruises to him, and when he plucks the glasses off her face, she lets him, seeing no threat in those sharp eyes. He takes in the sight of her, looking also at the new crook in the line of her nose, the abrasions near her brows, all courtesy of a pipe to the side of the face; those glasses weren't for show. His lips tighten.

"Who did this?" he asks.

"The head of a mutant trafficking ring," she answers, taking the sunglasses out of his hands and putting them back on. In their tinted darkness, he is less strange, no longer so stark against the earth tones of the café, caught in the early morning sun. She still feels the prickle of his gaze as he examines her with narrowed eyes. "I got him back for it, though."

"I expect you did," he says with a funny little smile, and, looking over her head, flags down the waiter. He orders something ostentatious and full of sugar, his pronunciation flawless. Of course. Natasha rolls her eyes, and Loki catches it when he turns back to her, though he misattributes its cause.

"Your choices are boring," he says, nodding to her feta-and-spinach croissant.

"I'm healthy," she defends. "You have a sweet tooth."

"So I do." He steals her coffee cup before she can pick it up, and leans back in his chair. "I like to indulge."

"Yeah, I've noticed," she says dryly, and snatches her cup back. She drinks from the same spot he did, and he notices, the slightest thoughtful twitch of his brow giving him away. They're both very detail-oriented; if Loki were capable of being loyal to others than himself, he would make a good spy.

The waiter sets his cake down in front of him, some ridiculously chocolaty confection that actually looks delicious.

"You can't have any," Loki informs her, seeing the way she stares at it. She sniffs at him and denies she even wants some, and he flicks a quick smile at her before eating. Natasha sips her coffee and watches him, marveling at the sheer amount of food he's able to put down in such a short time. It must be a god thing.

"This is weird," she says after a moment. Loki glances at her, inviting her to continue. She shakes her head slightly, unable to put her discomfort into words. Discomfort that she _isn't_ discomforted, that this strange intimacy feels good, genuine, not the product of two rivals but of friends long parted, relearning each other's life. "Why are you even here?"

He pauses at that, dabs his mouth with a napkin, sets it in his lap.

"I came here to kill you, of course," he says, just as amiable as he's been so far. "Or maim you, at the very least."

"Because I didn't show up?" she asks, gone still and wary. That, at least, is familiar when around him.

"Because you grow complacent." Loki toys with the butter knife, running his thumb along its edge. "I have come to you thrice, allowed you to have me as you wished, and that makes you believe you have tamed me. You let your guard down. No," he continues, cutting her off as she tries to protest, "you have. You should have drawn your gun on me the instant I joined you today."

"I'll still slit your throat if you push me," she warns him. "That hasn't changed."

"Ah, but could you draw your blade in time?" 

Loki's eyes flick over her shoulder, his lips curling in amusement, and she picks up her spoon as if to taste his dessert, instead using it as a mirror to look behind her. The waiter stands there, shocked motionless; she doesn't know how much he overheard, but just the last few sentences would be enough. Well, she didn't much like the food here, anyway.

"Come on," she says, slipping her wallet out of her pocket and tossing a twenty on the counter, keeping an eye on Loki. "Let's take a walk."

"Do you expect me to obey your every command?"

"No." She hesitates, considering her next words. "I expect you…to do whatever you want to do. Be exactly how you always are."

Ambiguous, she means. Unknown. Vexing. He can interpret it however he likes; she did it on purpose. Loki appears to contemplate that for a moment, then says, "I believe I shall take that as a compliment."

"I knew you would."

He stops her in the middle of the sidewalk, takes her jaw in his hand, and kisses her. Not a chaste kiss, not socially acceptable for the setting, but a kiss with tongue and teeth scraping across her lower lip. He tastes like confectioners' sugar, a trace of bitter coffee cutting through the sweetness. Apt. She curls her fingers in his lapels, and bites his tongue in retaliation. Loki breaks away from her with a surprised laugh, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. 

"Like I said," Natasha says, "let's take a walk."

Her safehouse is miles away, and for lack of a better place, they end up pressed against a wall in a side alley, tucked mostly out of sight from passing pedestrians. She has him with his back against the brick, her hands wrapped around his wrists, pinning them behind his back, her lips on his. He melts beneath her, giving in to her kisses, to the weight of her body, and it's wonderful, so wonderful. She pulls back to take off her sunglasses, dropping them to the ground before leaning into him again; they were cheap airport glasses, she doesn't care if they break.

Twisting his neck, Loki ghosts his lips over her bruises, then presses down with his teeth, sending a stabbing pain through her skull. She winces, pulls away, and he chuckles softly before exhaling over the bite mark he left. The pain dissipates, and so does the lingering throbbing from her other injuries.

"Did you just heal me with your breath?" she asks, mildly incredulous.

"You're welcome," he says, and smirks at her with lips swollen from her kisses. God, Natasha wants him, on his knees or on his back, naked, desperate. She cups him through the material of his trousers, and is pleased to hear his breath catch, to feel him hot and heavy in her palm.

"We're going to find a hotel," she tells him. "We're going to get a room. And then you're going to fuck me."

"Agreed," he whispers, wrapping his arms around her waist, ducking his head to kiss her again.

At the hotel, Loki pays for the room with a debit card, saving Natasha the hassle of explaining the charge on her account later down the line. Nothing is private for an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.

"Is there actually money on that card?" she asks him, panting as they slam the hotel room door behind them. Loki pushes her against it, kissing her neck, and she digs her nails into his scalp.

"Of course there is," he mutters against her skin, affronted. Natasha laughs, guessing the likelihood that he's telling the truth to be about forty-sixty, leaning in the direction of not very.

"Take your clothes off," she tells him, pushing him away, and he obeys with alacrity, glancing at her with something much like hunger in his expression. As he undresses, movements quick and methodical, she shrugs off her camel coat, tugs her shirt over her head. Loki pauses, watching her.

"Get back to it," she orders, and after a moment, he does, stealing glances at her as she unzips her boots, unbuttons her jeans. He's eaten her out but never seen her naked, she realizes, and this time when he stops, wearing socks, garters, gloves, and nothing else (a strangely attractive look, she discovers), she doesn't reprimand him. She lets him look his fill, drinking her down with his intense, pale-eyed stare. Finally, he moves toward her, crawling - Loki, naked and on his hands and knees for her, crawling for her. When he sits back on his heels and runs leather-clad hands up her thighs, she vividly remembers his tongue, his mouth, the way he worked her over so expertly, but she likes to try new things. Wrapping his hair around her hand, she pulls his head back, forcing him to make eye contact.

"Get to the bed," she says, her voice level and quiet.

"Only if you come with me," he retorts, and she yanks sharply on his hair, drawing a tiny, half-muffled yelp from his throat.

"To the bed," she says. "Now."

He goes. She likes that.

Following him, she waits until he's sitting down, then pushes him flat on the bed, swinging astride him and immediately stealing his breath in a kiss. Loki moans audibly, returning her kiss just as ferociously, running his hands over her body, squeezing her ass, coaxing little shivers from her as he brushes against her ribs, cupping her breasts and teasing her nipples with fingers sheathed in slick leather gloves. Once she's at the point where she's rubbing herself against his thigh, groaning into his mouth, she rolls to the side and drags him with her, flipping him over so he lies above her, propping himself up with his hands, anticipation in his eyes. Slinging her legs around his hips, she arches against him, and commands, "Now, fuck me."

So obedient, Loki is. He slams into her, knocking a loud moan from her mouth, and grabs her hips with bruising force. He fucks her deep, hard enough to move the bed, and Natasha can only wrap one hand around the nape of his neck, clench the sheets with the other, and move with him, little gasping half-screams tearing out of her throat.

"Don't," she pants, clawing at his neck and chest, "don't come, not until I say so, do you hear me?"

Loki snarls, his face contorted, and buries his face against her breasts.

"Yes," he gasps, "yes, I hear you," and fucks her even harder.

When she comes, her orgasm is practically forced from her, her body clenching and seizing before she's ready to be finished. It's one of the most intense climaxes she's ever had, and she nearly draws blood on Loki's back, scraping long grasping lines with her nails. As soon as she's stopped shuddering, Loki freezes, still inside her, trembling, his breath deep and rasping in her ear. She exhales as she relaxes, smoothing her hands down the lean lines of his back.

"Are you waiting for me?" she murmurs in his ear, and takes the desperate little noise he makes as an affirmative. Natasha arches her hips against him and purposefully tightens around his cock. Loki cries out and bites down hard on his cheek, breathing through his teeth, still hard and eager, unable to stop his hips from jerking. He's so, so close, and Natasha wishes she could keep him on the edge forever, but even gods have limits to their stamina. Easing back, she lets him slip out of her, and he whispers her name, pleading, dropping his head to rest on her chest. Natasha takes his hand, kisses his knuckles, constricting her grip on his wrist until her hand is shaking with the effort, his bones creaking beneath her fingers. Gently, she brushes his cock with her foot.

"Good boy," she whispers, "now you can come," and he keens and does exactly that, tearing through the sheets with one hand, the other balling into a fist even as she twists his arm cruelly. The pain just spurs him on, and he collapses, quivering, on top of her.

"Tonight," she tells him, stroking his hair as he tries to catch his breath, "I have something to give you."

Loki laughs, sounding exhausted.

"I rescind my previous estimation of your intelligence," he says. "I planned to kill you today."

"I always have a plan to kill you," she replies. It's only true insofar as she is always prepared, in the back of her mind, to fight for her survival. "I just haven't had to use it yet."

"So the Black Widow hasn't lost her bite," he hums, pressing a kiss to the side of her breast. He doesn't catch her lie. She feels him smile. "Somehow, I find that comforting."

Natasha has no reply to that.

****

. . .

The first time she and Clint met, they had been assigned by two different agencies to kill each other. She knew him by reputation; he had already earned the nickname of the Hawk by that time, and rumor had it he'd never once missed a target. Natasha never asked him what he had heard about her, but word gets around, and she knows it wasn't nice. Among assassins, that's a good thing.

They were meant to kill each other, but then she made a mistake, didn't take her shot, misjudged the situation, and Clint was the one to hunt her down, finding her injured and weeping as she watched the hospital burn from a decrepit high-rise a block away. Her body was blackened with soot, her hands too burnt to wipe away the tears and mucus on her face. Still she remembers looking up to see the Hawk with his bow in the building opposite, arrow pointed straight at her. She stared at him, dull and bleary, until he lowered his bow and disappeared, and then she waited for him to come kill her. That didn't last; Natasha has never been good at dying.

Clint caught her hobbling down the stairs, trapped her on a landing. She glared at him, gritted her teeth, and waited for the final blow.

Instead, he said, "I know an organization that could really use your skills."

It took her a moment to process this. Then she said, blankly, "I was going to kill you today."

"Yeah," he said. "But you didn't."

He held out his hand to her, and she took it.

Years ago, now. Natasha has changed so much from that person, grown so much, and she isn't naive enough to compare her and Clint's situation to the one she's in now, but there are parallels, in a way. Natasha has never had the luxury of having a conscience, but despite it all, she developed one anyway. Loki, it seems, has always had room for kindness, but he's never exercised it. Parallel, but reversed. 

She can only hope the rest of their path won't be.

****

. . .

Loki is waiting for her in the dark when she arrives, naked, perched on the kitchen counter, sipping on wine she knows she didn't buy. Natasha drops her bag on the floor and leans against the wall, taking him in. He walks the line between handsome and beautiful, and it's most obvious when he's like this, so slim, all angles and shadows, his long hair dark and spilling over his shoulders, hiding his face like a gossamer curtain. He holds the stem of the wineglass carefully, almost delicately, and Natasha suddenly remembers those fingers curled into a fist, slamming against the reinforced glass of his cell. In her mind, there's a distinct disconnect between that monster in his chains and the man sitting here now. She wonders if he feels it, too.

"Do you ever think about the Chitauri invasion?" she asks him, and he glances at her, just the tiniest twitch of his head.

"All the time," he says.

"Do you regret it?"

This time Loki brushes his hair out of his eyes and turns toward her, his eyes glowing in the dim light.

"Yes," he tells her, and she reads his dejection in the set of his shoulders, the sorrow in the whiteness around his pursed lips.

"Should I believe you?"

He laughs. "I don't know, should you?"

Always the games. Natasha picks up her bag and stalks into the kitchen, flicking on the light as she goes. She stands before him and spreads his knees, stepping into the triangle of his legs. Loki looks at her calmly, a thread of anticipation in the quirk of his mouth.

"Do you still want to die?" she inquires, and he goes very still.

"I still want you to kill me," he corrects, and that difference is not lost on Natasha. She wants to push him, to make him tell her more, but resists.

Instead, she says, "I promised you punishment, earlier." His eyes grow dark, his pupils dilating with desire. "And a gift."

"You'd think those would be contradictory," he says, watching her hungrily as Natasha takes a few items from her bag, places them on the counter. A velvet box, about five inches by four - his gift - a blindfold, and a nine-tailed whip, made of matte black leather with red strands laced through the braids.

"Mortification of the flesh," Loki murmurs, drawing out the sibilant. "I take it this is my punishment?"

"Clever boy," Natasha says approvingly, and he flinches, a flush on his high cheekbones. Embarrassment or arousal? Both, Natasha decides.

"And my gift?" he asks after a moment, clearing his throat.

This, Natasha was unsure of. Her instincts told her yes, though, and she usually listens to them. Taking the box from the counter, she opens it, and presents its contents to Loki. He stares for a long time, then picks up his gift, handling its component pieces carefully.

"Do you know what it is?" she asks him, realizing belatedly that they might not have this kind of thing where he comes from.

"Oh, yes," he says, and his voice has gone a little breathy. Natasha watches him avidly. "There is no such thing on Asgard. We see no need to police passion in such a manner."

"Sucks for you," she says. Loki is hypnotized by the steel bars of the cage, the silver padlock attached to the ring. Natasha clicks her tongue, getting his attention, and holds out her hand for the cage. He places it in her palm mutely. "Want to put it on now?"

Loki looks at her silently, helplessly, and for all that she's cut him, ridden him, threatened him with death, and ordered him not to come, she has never seen him look as exposed as this.

"Well," she says, giving him an out, " _I_ want to, and I guess that's what matters, isn't it?"

Carefully, Natasha lifts his flaccid cock and balls, tucking the ring behind them, adjusting it in the front so his skin won't get caught in the clasp. Loki is staring down at her hands with his mouth hanging open; Natasha smirks. As she starts to fit the cage around him, though, his cock stiffens, flushing faintly red, and now she frowns.

"This is defeating the purpose," she points out, and Loki grips the counter's edge so tightly his knuckles whiten.

"I know," he says in a tight voice. "I'm - "

He breaks off, and Natasha raises her eyebrows.

"Were you going to say sorry?" She slaps his cock lightly, and Loki makes a little yipping noise and tries to scoot away from her. There's nowhere for him to go, and she does it again, a sharp tap with the back of her hand. "Because if you weren't, I don't think you deserve this."

"Damn you, whore," he hisses, and shoves her away with his foot. Natasha stumbles, and nearly loses her temper, real insults rising in her throat. She glares at Loki, and he meets her gaze with the same angry intensity, but behind that rage is…something else. Natasha narrows her eyes thoughtfully, and rethinks her method of attack.

"Lucky for you," she continues, as if that interlude never happened, "I don't hand things out based on what you _deserve_. I do it based on need." He's let her move closer again, so she's standing right where she was before, inches from his body. "And you do need this, don't you, Loki?" She runs her finger up the underside of his straining cock.

"Yes," he says, his voice low and hoarse, his entire body tense as if he's trying to keep as still as possible.

"Then fix this." Natasha nods at his erection.

Slowly, Loki wraps his fingers around his cock, pumping it once, twice, swirling his thumb over the tip with a small gasp. Natasha braces her hands on either side of his spread legs, watching his cock change in color from flushed pink to urgent red, the gleam of the loose cock ring nestled at the base, still waiting for the lock; she can feel his eyes on her face, gauging her reaction. Peering up at him, she meets his gaze and licks her lips deliberately, and leans down to grace the head of his cock with a little kiss. Loki mutters something fervent in a foreign language, and speeds his movements, making little animal noises in the back of his throat. Natasha steps back just in time to miss the spurt of his semen as he comes, curling in on himself.

"You'll have to clean that up later," she tells him, annoyed.

"Menial labor is for thralls," he says disdainfully. The effect is ruined a little by the shakiness of his voice. "And whatever I am to you, Natasha Romanoff, I am _not_ your thrall."

"Slavery isn't my thing," she says, and leans in close, invading his personal space. "But you're still mine."

It feels good to let the words that have been haunting her mind finally spill from her tongue. Loki meets her eyes, not agreeing, but not disapproving, either. Natasha touches his face, runs two fingers along the steep angle of his jaw, along his lips; he shuts his eyes, kisses her fingertips, inclines his head. _Yes._

"Good," she murmurs, and kisses him lightly on the lips. He seems caught between leaning closer and pushing her away, so she takes the decision away from him and goes to the sink, pulling two clean dish towels from the drawer. Running the faucet at the sink, she soaks one towel with warm water before coming back to him.

"And what is this?" he asks her, and she answers him by dabbing at his cock, cleaning him off with gentle hands.

"You have no idea how disgusting it can get if you don't keep these things clean," she says, jerking her head to indicate the cage. "I'll have to show you the best ways to do it later."

"I am a fastidious man. I'm sure I can manage," he says dryly. Natasha smiles, her face warm. After a pause, as she dries him off, he asks, "Do you do this often?"

"Do you want to be special, Loki?"

She means it as a joke, a callback to one of their earlier conversations, but as she picks up the cage to slip it back on, he stops her, looping his fingers loosely around her wrists.

"I want to kill every man you've touched before me," he enunciates. "And every man you will touch after me. I would see them all burn, and have you to myself."

Natasha opens her mouth, and finds no words. Loki releases her and leans back, inscrutable. She looks down at the cage in her hand. A lot of men have said similar things to her in the past, but she's not sure if any of them meant it as much as Loki does.

"Spread your legs," she orders. Loki exhales, tension leaving his body, and obeys. Natasha considers who he is, who she is, this whole situation, and acknowledges that she is being an idiot. She slides the cage on, wiggling it to seat his cock comfortably inside, and connects it to the cock ring. Picking up the padlock, she slips it through the part where they join, and clamps it shut. It clicks with a sense of finality, and she draws back to study Loki's reaction.

He touches the cage lightly, skimming his index finger along the smooth bars, chewing his lip every time he touches skin.

"Loki," Natasha says. Just his name, but he reacts like it's an order, and the look on his face cuts her to the quick. Torn between laughing and crying, delight and fear in his furrowed brow, his parted lips begging for her touch. If Natasha were a different kind of woman, she would swoon. Instead, she picks up the cat o' nine tails, and lets the knotted braids slither through her fingers.

"Ah," Loki sighs. "The carrot and the whip. I see how this goes."

"You did ask for punishment," she reminds him. He gives her a small smile, and jumps off the counter, turning on the spot and bracing himself against it. She chuckles. "You're leaping ahead a little there, aren't you?"

"Would you have me any other way?" he asks, cheeky. Natasha shrugs, smiles, knowing full well he can't see her, and drags the tips of the cat o' nine across his back. Loki shivers, and almost hides how he arches into the caress.

"This isn't going to be nice," she forewarns. "It's not going to be sexy. I chose this whip because it hurts."

"No games," he whispers. "Yes, Natasha. I understand."

Natasha bites her lip, draws back her arm, and brings the cat whistling down on his back.

She wasn't lying when she said it would hurt; this is a whip meant to draw blood, and the first blow leaves livid red lines, running diagonally across Loki's back. He cries out, and she kicks his legs apart, baring the gleam of the silver cage dangling there, before striking him again. This time Loki muffles his shriek in his fist, biting his knuckles hard, but when she whips him again, and a fourth time, he has to grasp the counter for support, pressing his forehead to the laminate, gulping down air in between his cries.

"I can hear you," she sing-songs, and delivers three bruising blows in quick succession. Loki screams, contorting his body to avoid the sting of the whip, but Natasha is merciless; she circles to his side, and lashes him again.

"Please, Natasha, cruel," he gasps, and she pauses.

"How much more can you take?" she asks, a little concerned. 

Loki gives a gurgling laugh, and says, "How much more can you give me?"

Natasha bounces the cat in her hand, and thinks of what she's seen Thor take in the field. If Loki's endurance is anything like his, which she's sure of, then there's little she can do to seriously injure him.

Good.

She hits him again and again, carving vivid red lines into his skin, and Loki sobs, writhing in place. Natasha can barely breathe, the sight of him filling her with savage pleasure; she is soaking wet, exhilarated, and Loki is crying for her, bent over, cock locked up. Crying for her.

_Natasha, cruel!_

He has no idea how cruel she can be.

She traces the contours of his quivering thighs with the very tips of the cat, relishing his sharp, shallow panting, then runs her hand down the length of the braids, gathering them into a bouquet sprouting six inches from her fingers. Crouching down, she whips his balls without warning, and he screeches, clamping his legs shut. She bites him hard on the delicate skin where his thigh joins his buttock, and he whines before spreading his legs again. Natasha reaches down and tucks the cage out of the way, his pre-come dripping down her fingers.

"You like this, huh?" she teases, and nips him again. Loki shudders, and she pinches the skin of his scrotum between her nails before patting him lightly, then standing. 

"Turn around," she commands, and he does, face tear-streaked and puffy, his eyes red, his lips swollen from the pressure of his teeth. Natasha lets the whip drop to the floor, kicks off her shoes, unbuckles her belt. Without a word, she turns and walks to the bedroom, shedding clothes as she goes. There are few things she's certain of when it comes to Loki, but this she knows: he will follow.

Stretching herself out on the bed, naked, Natasha spreads her legs for Loki, hovering the doorway.

"Come on," she invites.

He clambers into bed with her, already sore and made awkward from the whipping, and presses his entire body against her, decorating her chest and upper arms with kisses in half-hysterical passion.

"What do you want of me?" he asks her in a hoarse whisper.

"I want you to fuck me," Natasha orders.

Loki pulls back, bewildered, one hand stealing to the metal cage between his legs. Natasha raises an eyebrow at him.

"How - " he starts, and Natasha cuts him off mid-sentence.

"Use your imagination."

Loki stares at her, then makes a desperate, keening sound and flings himself against her again, his clever fingers finding her clit then slipping lower, thrusting inside her. He is whining and whimpering, tasting her skin, biting her hard and wide-mouthed, scraping his teeth across her breasts; he ruts against her like he really is fucking her, half-insane, his weight and his body and his sheer presence overwhelming Natasha, and then he presses another finger inside her, rubbing her clit with his thumb viciously, and Natasha shouts and comes, her legs scissoring tight around his waist. The minute she's done, she pushes him off her, and Loki crawls back to her, burrowing at her side, his legs splayed wide and his cock bulging against the confines of his cage.

"Please," he begs, and Natasha shakes her head.

"No," she says softly, and Loki screams into her shoulder.

"I _hate_ you," he growls, "I really do, I - "

"I can go get the key right now, if you need me to," she reminds him, and Loki shakes his head violently.

" _No_ , no, don't," he pleads, and Natasha is almost frightened by how thoroughly she's taken him apart. She sits up, and Loki curls into her lap, too tall for it, his limbs gangly. He grips her hard enough to leave deep blackened marks, and shudders against her.

"What have you _done_ to me?" he asks, voice bruised and wondering. "Natasha!"

"Hey," she says, stroking his back, his sides, kissing his head. "Hey, Loki, talk to me, you're okay, you're okay." Aren't you? she doesn't add.

"Of course I'm 'okay'," he snaps. She hasn't heard him use human slang before, and it sounds faintly ludicrous, coming from him. "You think you can undo me so easily?"

His breath hitches, and he goes rigid for a long few seconds; she thinks he's trying not to sob again. Natasha is out of her league. All she can do is cuddle him and hope that her unstable god won't fall apart completely.

Fifteen minutes later, he loosens up, and curls up beside her, still needy but not on the verge of a breakdown. Natasha gets them both water from the kitchen, noting the semen stain on her floor, making a mental note to take care of that tomorrow. Loki sneers at his cup and says something disparaging about tap water; Natasha shrugs. She sees him drinking it out of the corner of her eye when he thinks she's not looking.

Twenty minutes later, they're stretched out on the bed, Loki on his stomach, Natasha on her side. She trails her fingers over the raw red marks she left on his back, barely touching him; the wounds where she broke his skin are already scabbing over. Loki pillows his head on his folded arms and watches her.

Thirty minutes later, Natasha falls asleep. She wakes in the middle of the night to find Loki still in bed with her, his breathing deep and even, his hand palm up on his pillow. She laces their fingers together and cuddles up to his side.

The next morning, she wakes up alone. She stumbles out of bed, bleary-eyed, and finds her kitchen clean, her clothes folded, and the only key to his padlocked cage laid out neatly on the countertop, threaded on a silver chain.

****

. . .

"I am," Natasha says to Bruce Banner, "in an incredibly stupid relationship that's going to blow up in my face at any moment."

Bruce blinks at her, looking a bit like a cornered animal.

"I'm sorry?" he says hesitantly. "Why are you telling me and not Clint? Or Tony? Or anyone else?"

"Tony can't keep his mouth shut, Steve is too, well…"

"Steve?" Bruce offers. She snorts in agreement.

"Yeah. Thor is out for a lot of reasons - " Just one extremely significant reason, really. "And Clint - " She shakes her head. "I can't tell Clint, either."

"So it's me by process of elimination," Bruce summarizes. There's that note in his voice she's learned to detect, equal parts resigned, angry, and sad. Natasha puts her hand on his arm.

"I trust you," she says, holding his gaze, hoping he sees the truth of her words. She fears the Hulk, but she likes Bruce. "I needed someone to tell, and I thought you were the best option."

Bruce nods a little, thinking this over.

"Well, thanks," he says. "I think. You don't want advice, do you? Because I'm really not the best option for that."

"I know," Natasha says. She sits next to him on his workbench. "I probably wouldn't take it, anyway."

"Well, that's good to know," he says wryly, and she nudges him with her elbow. It took her a long time to become used to casual physical contact with Bruce; now she does it whenever she can. She thinks it makes him feel liked.

"Can I stay?" she asks. He glances at her, startled.

"Uh, sure. I don't know how much of it you'll understand…"

He gestures dubiously to the scrolling equations and chemistry diagrams on the screens; Natasha peers at them, and estimates her understanding to be at about ten percent, fifteen at max.

"I might surprise you," she says, and toys with the key on its chain, suspended around her neck.

****

. . .

Her phone goes off in the middle of the night, the little trill that indicates a text, and Natasha groans, rolling over and tugging her pillow over her head. Sometimes she really wishes she lived a life that meant she could put her phone on silent.

The phone chirps again, and with a huff, Natasha picks it up. It's an unknown number. That alone would put Natasha on edge - very few people have this number, and she knows all of them - but when she scrolls down to read the actual text, she goes from tense to outright worried.

_Need you urgently. usual place_

_this is no game, I promise you_

In her hands, the phone beeps again, and a new text rolls across her screen:

_Please_

Natasha flings the covers aside and rolls out of bed. There's only one person who would phrase things like that, and even though she didn't think Loki knew how to use a phone, she's not going to ignore him. She nearly gets dressed in her civvies, then pauses; whatever frightens Loki that much is not something she wants to meet unprepared. Though it takes her longer, she wiggles into her bulletproof catsuit, straps her Widow's Bites to her wrists, her guns to her hips, extra ammo tucked in her utility belt. She fastens the red hourglass buckle with a snap, and slinks out the door. Unfortunately, she can't exactly catch a cab in this outfit, but she _can_ steal one of Tony's cars, and she knows how to drive very fast very well. She makes it to the safehouse in record time, and leaves the car parked a few blocks away.

She cases the place, but there is nothing remotely unusual that she can see, so she scales the fire escape and slips in the bathroom window. Quietly taking out her gun, she creeps to the door, crouched low to avoid casting a shadow in the dim glow of the nightlight. She can hear noises, not sobs, but breaths too choked and shaky to be normal, and recognizes them immediately: Loki. She sets her jaw, and crawls into the bedroom, from there into the living room. Whoever has hurt him will regret it very much.

But there is no one there, only Loki, hunched over on the couch, staring down at his hands with wide, blank eyes. Natasha waits, listening for any indication of another presence, and hears nothing.

"Loki?" she asks, and he jumps, curling into himself protectively. Soothingly, she says, "It's just me. It's Natasha."

Loki looks up at her, his stance still wary, and Natasha swallows hard. Gold thread laces his lips, stitching his mouth shut, and she is briefly and horribly reminded of their conversation earlier: _"Did they catch you?" "They sewed my lips shut."_

"Oh, Loki," she whispers, and goes to his side, wrapping her arms around him. Loki leans against her hard, and there are those noises again, huffing sighs through his nose, flinching each time he nearly opens his mouth and the stitches pull.

"You're all right," she soothes. "I've got you."

Natasha is a problem-solver, not particularly good at comforting people, so she takes his jaw in her hand and turns his face toward her, examining the stitches. Underneath the caked blood, she sees that what she had mistaken for thread is actually wire, thin and grooved, inscribed with writing she can't read. She brushes her thumb across his chin, and holds his gaze, seeing the banked fury in his eyes, tinged with humiliation and fear.

"I'm going to take care of you," she tells him, instilling her tone with every ounce of certainty she has in her system. "Are these enchanted? Is that why you couldn't take them off?"

A nod.

"Will I get hurt when _I_ try to take them off?"

A shake of his head, something strange in his eyes. She kisses his forehead.

"Stay here," she says. "I'm going to get the wire cutters."

She grabs a towel and soaks it in warm water on the way back. When she sits down again, Loki's entire body tenses, and she can tell he's trying not to flinch away from her. Skittish. She's seen this before, knows the feeling; torture is hard to shake off no matter how jaded you are. 

Holding up the towel, she says, "I'm going to use this to blot away the blood and soften your skin, okay?" She waits for his nod to press it against his lips, cupping his back of his head with a firm hand. She keeps talking to him, a steady flow of reassurances, stories about her own injuries, jokes too dark for real laughter that take some of the grimness from his eyes nonetheless.

"Okay," she says finally, using the towel to get as much of the dried blood from the wire as she can. "I'm going to start now."

Loki closes his eyes.

Pliers like these aren't meant to be used in such a delicate area, and she catches his lip more than once with the very tip of the edged jaws. Loki winces, and she presses her hand to his chest, murmuring apologies before moving on, carefully snipping the golden wire. At last, it's all been cut, and she pulls each piece out as gently as she can, drawing fresh blood from his wounds and pained noises from Loki's throat. As soon as they're all out, he gasps, opening his mouth wide, and Natasha feels what can only be his magic collect in the air, an electric charge, making her shiver, the hair on her arms standing up. She can see the holes in his lips closing, fresh skin growing over the wounds. It's disconcerting, inhuman, and she has to force herself not to pull away.

When he's finished, Loki holds his fingers to his lips, pressing hard enough to turn the new skin white. Natasha watches him, saying nothing; she doesn't know what he needs, what he's like after trauma. Finally, he laughs, a hoarse, humorless chuckle, and leans his head on her shoulder.

"Depressingly unimaginative," he rasps. "Although I do give them credit for the binding spell; I hadn't thought they could manage it."

"Who are they?" Natasha asks, her voice low and cold. Not directed toward him, of course, but the bastards who thought they could get away with this in the first place.

"A trio of mortal magicians," he explains, and shakes his head ruefully. "I underestimated their recklessness. Had I known, I would have taken more precautions."

"What will you do to them?" She curls her fingers around his wrist, squeezes tightly, giving him an anchor; the trembling he's trying to hide fades somewhat, and he sighs.

"Something unpleasant," he mutters into her shoulder. "Why, do you want to avenge me?"

Natasha huffs a laugh. "It's in the name. Earth isn't the only thing we avenge." Loki lifts his head, suddenly alert; probably the wrong thing to bring up. "Mostly we protect Stark's ego from bruising."

Loki snorts. "Pitiful creature that he is."

Natasha holds her tongue, choosing not to debate the merits of Tony Stark right now. Instead, she strokes her thumb over his pulse point, glancing down to see the blue veins beneath his pale skin, and says, "I need you to tell me what you need right now, okay?"

Loki considers this, looking down at himself. His lip curls fractionally in distaste. "I need to bathe. This is disgusting."

"Yeah," Natasha agrees, raising her eyebrows at his blood-spattered leather and torn shirt. "I'm really glad you said that."

"Wench." He makes as if to slap her on the back of the head, and Natasha ducks the blow easily, pulling him to his feet.

"Hey, that's mean. I'm very insulted!" she says, deadpan.

Loki smirks at her. "Punish me, then."

She recognizes that look, agitated and trying to distract himself from it. Tucking her hand in the crook of his arm, she says, "Maybe I will," putting as much menace into her voice as she can. Loki laughs, and she tugs him to the bathroom.

"I only have a shower," she says, half in apology, and Loki shrugs.

"It will do," he replies, traces of the arrogant Asgardian prince showing through. Natasha ignores it, and leans back against the wall, watching him as he undresses. Glancing up and finding her still fully clothed, he quirks an eyebrow at her in question.

"I was wondering when you'd get around to it," she says, cool and firm, and steps away from the wall, holding her arms out to the sides. Something softens in his gaze, another layer of tension she had only barely noticed slipping away.

"So demanding," he says, his voice dropping low, and puts his hands to her waist. Slowly, he strokes her sides, running his fingers along her ribs, before unbuckling her belt and draping it carefully over the sink. Taking her zipper between two slim fingers, he pulls it down, the material parting with a hiss. Loki's eyes follow it, chasing every glimpse of her bared skin, and Natasha runs her nails along his arms, enjoying the tiny shiver she coaxes from him.

This isn't about sex, but about comfort, taking solace in the roles they're used to playing. Loki takes the key on its chain from her neck, handling it with unconscious reverence, then goes to his knees, peeling her out of her catsuit and taking off her boots with sure, competent hands. Natasha watches him, smiles at his hesitation when he almost presses a kiss to her calf, changing his mind nearly before he starts the motion. She laces her fingers in his hair and pulls tight until he sighs and rests his head against her thigh.

"I'm going to take care of you," she promises again, and he shudders slightly. "Do you believe me?"

A very long pause, then he murmurs, "Do you know, I think I do," and this time, he does kiss her leg.

In the shower, she cleans the blood from his face, touching the bruises on his torso lightly. Loki makes a face at them, and after another unsettling electric surge, they fade away just as the cuts on his lips did.

"I didn't know you could do that," she remarks, turning around and letting him rub shampoo into her hair. "I've never seen it before."

"I leave the marks you give me," he says offhandedly, and Natasha turns to face him. His hair is slicked back by the water, his skin flushed from the heat. He gives her a quizzical look as she drinks him down, then his eyes flutter shut as she rises on tiptoe and kisses his mouth gently.

"Good," she whispers, and feels him smile against her lips. He wraps his arms around her hips, pulling her close under the spray.

"Occasionally," he says quietly, his breath against her ear, his voice slightly tentative, "you might need to be taken care of as well."

"Yeah," she says, leaning against his chest. "Next time I'm in a scrape, I'll text you."

"You won't need to," he says, and his grip tightens, that dark edge coming into his voice again. "I will know."

"You know I trust you," she tells him, taking a risk, and Loki inhales sharply. She wonders how often he's heard that before, if at all.

"Natasha," he says, and nothing more. He holds her close, his face in her hair, until the water runs cold, and she is happy to stay in his arms.

She doesn't know how she feels about that.

****

. . .

Natasha wakes to a weight in her bed, arms curled around her waist, and she goes stiff with shock, reaching instinctively to the knife in her bedside table, before she recalls the night before. She relaxes, and Loki presses even closer against her, mouthing at her neck, his teeth just this side of painful. She can feel the cage digging into her thigh, his rocking hips as he arches against her, unaware of his movements.

"Afraid of me?" he murmurs, his voice hoarse from sleep. Natasha likes how it sounds.

"Should I be?" she asks in reply, and stretches, arms above her head, before she rolls to lie on her back, able to see Loki.

"Always the games," he says. He sounds pleased, and maybe a little wistful. "No, you need not fear me, not now."

"That's what I thought," she says, and props herself up on her elbows. Loki remains down, his head on the pillows, and she catches his jaw in a firm grip before kissing him, hard and insistent, her hair falling around them. Loki yields to her, opening his mouth, his hand sliding up to cup the nape of her neck. She runs her tongue along the curve of his teeth, giving no quarter, catching his throat in her hand and squeezing gently. His fingers tighten on her neck, and he muffles his moan in her mouth. Against his lips, Natasha smiles, leans away, relishing his glassy-eyed arousal, the contentment evident in the languid lines of his body.

"Oh," he breathes, licking his lips. Natasha parts them with her finger and strokes his tongue with the tip of her nail; Loki's lips curve, and he closes his eyes, sucks lightly until Natasha pulls away, drawing a light trail down his chin with his saliva. Marking him.

Her chest is tight, the smile on her face stubbornly refusing to leave, and she wants to kiss him again, to see bruises blooming on that fair skin, to have him kneeling at her feet, obedient, a hailstorm contained by her commands - to make him hers, wholly hers. She wants. It's never safe to want.

Loki opens his eyes, and she bites back those thoughts and says instead, "How are you feeling?"

"Fine." Loki blinks at her, his eyes wide and clear, the picture of innocence. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Oh, I don't know, possibly the torture from last night?"

"Torture?" Loki's innocent face is twisted by a sardonic sneer. "I've had worse."

"So have I," Natasha points out. A flicker of distress in his eyes before he glances away, she sees, and she wonders. "Still would call it torture."

Loki heaves a dramatic sigh, and shrugs. "If you insist, Natasha." He shifts, turning onto his side, draping an arm around her waist and pulling her close before nipping at her bare breast. Natasha leans into his touch. "I promise you I have made a speedy recovery from my heinous experiences of the night before."

Under the sarcasm, he's telling the truth, she thinks. Understandable; people like them learn to move on from these things. Natasha cradles his head in her hand as he sucks hard on her nipple, runs his hands along her hips, her thighs, her stomach, caressing her body as if smoothing lotion over her skin, determined to touch every last inch. In response, Natasha nudges his cock in its cage with her knee, and his fingers on her leg spasm.

"You know, you _do_ look recovered," she says, a laugh caught in her throat, and with a little shove she gets him flat on his back. "I'm glad."

"Maybe you should show me just how glad you are," he purrs, his eyes half-lidded, and reaches for her. She twists away from him, and leans down, lifting the cage and baring his balls. Before Loki manages much more than her name, spoken in a shocked and pleased whisper, she nuzzles the soft skin, tracing the rim of the cock ring with her tongue, using her teeth ever so gently as his cock swells and hardens, constrained in its cage.

"Natasha," he protests, his voice going breathy when she licks his slit through the steel bars, sucking on the bare patches of skin.

"Comfortable?" she teases, and he groans.

"It's been three weeks," he says petulantly, whining and well aware of it. Natasha nips him in reply, right where his groin meets his thigh, and he twitches. "What more do you want of me?"

"Ask nicely," she orders, and he gives her a obstinate look, his lips pressing tightly together. "You're a brat, you know that?"

Loki half-rises, looking deeply offended, but Natasha straddles him in one swift move, taking him by the shoulders and pushing him flat again, leaning over him so her breasts brush his chest, and the irritation fades from his eyes. Quickly.

"You like it," he breathes, and Natasha grins.

"I do," she says. "Or you'd know it, trust me."

Then she proceeds to take him apart.

Natasha is an expert at sensuality, and she takes full advantage of her years of experience, using not just her mouth and hands but the weight of her body, the feather-light touch of her hair, stroking his pressure points and seeking out all of his most sensitive spots with her nails. She knows them well by now, something both unnerving and pleasing to think about. Loki writhes under her ministrations, gasping, and Natasha whispers in his ear, "Ask nicely."

Loki gives a breathless little laugh, and arches helplessly against her.

"Must I?" he asks, and twines his fingers in her hair. "You must know - "

"I told you to ask nicely," she repeats, and deliberately spreads her legs, rocking herself against his caged cock, smearing her wetness along the steel; the texture feels fantastic, catching her clit nearly perfectly, and she hums in pleasure. "Or maybe I'll just do it like this. It feels pretty good, you know."

"You're awful," he says delightedly, tugging hard at her hair, and moans loudly when she gyrates against him again. "Simply - _awful_ , Natasha, I - "

"Yes?" she goads, tasting his skin, focusing on the way he trembles, his muscles spasming involuntarily, her rhythm rapidly building pleasure deep inside her.

He grins, his head tilted back, throat bared, vulnerable, weak, and asks, teasingly, "Do you love me, Natasha?"

She freezes, and he cranes his neck to look at her.

"Oh," he says, shocked. "Oh. You _do_."

"What makes you think so?" she manages. His words cut her, threw her off-kilter, but she is a spy and a consummate actress, and her voice is steady, lightly curious, a carefree inquiry. Loki sees right through it.

"Many things," he replies, catching her by the hips as she tries to pull away, his fingers digging deep into the muscle. "People are so transparent, so very easy to read. Even you, at times. My only question is why."

"Why?" she echoes, ceasing her attempts at escaping and instead staying very still, outwardly composed.

"Yes, why." 

She shakes her head, denying it, but he looks at her thoughtfully, studying her with a dawning light in his eyes, a man who has finally found the missing variable in an unsolvable equation. 

"Oh, I like this," he says decisively. "No, don't tell me; allow me to guess."

"Loki," she says softly, refusing to plead, but he overrides her.

"What is love, to one such as you?" he muses, watching her with a keen stare, cold enjoyment. "Surely more than the exchange of fluids, the bestial writhing of two bodies in the night."

She looks away, says nothing.

"Perhaps you like to think of yourself as my savior," he continues, a cat stalking a spider. "A guiding light to lead me from the void into the tender embrace of the good and the righteous. Is that a balm for your calloused heart, Natasha? The thought that perhaps you might do for me what Barton so kindly did for you?"

"Yeah, that's why I did it," she snaps, and twists hard away from him, but his is the strength of a god, and she remains where she is, trapped. "That's why this whole thing started. But that's not love, that's wiping out the red."

"So naive," he murmurs, his eyes sharp. "To think the deeds of evil men can be washed clean so easily."

"You're deliberately misinterpreting me," she accuses, and he gives her a narrow look.

"And that's not love, not for you," he continues, ignoring her, and tugs her a little closer. "Of course not. Our little games of master and slave aside, you much prefer equitability; the thought of being a shepherd to a lost sheep frightens you."

"Are you admitting you're lost?" she asks, her words striking him in the heart as she knew they would. Loki doesn't move, doesn't give any indication she's affected him, but his mocking, patronizing shield drops, something rawer and darker showing in his eyes.

"Perhaps," he admits. He shifts, licks his lips. "Is _that_ it, then? Vulnerability? Ah, but that you have never once shown me, despite what I have given to you, and if this between us is love, Natasha, it must go both ways."

"What do you think this is?" she snarls, and bites her lip hard, so hard. She feels as if a passing breeze could make her bleed.

His voice had been bitter, harsh; now he cocks his head, that quicksilver anger fading, considering.

"I think you love me," he finally decides.

"Love is for children," she whispers.

"From where I stand, Natasha," Loki says softly, "you are very much a child."

"Stop playing games with me!"

Her voice is a hiss, full of anger and fear, the first true crack in her armor she's ever shown him. Loki jerks back, his eyes going wide and his grip loosening; she scrambles from the bed and stands there, hands clenched into fists. This is too frightening, she's too defenseless; if she admits what she feels, that makes it _real_ , and she doesn't know if she can take that. Not if this is what she gets in return: scorn, derision, humiliation.

"Games," Loki says, still in that same, soft tone. He shakes his head slightly, a thousand thoughts flickering across his face, too quickly for Natasha to read, but his smile leans tender. He holds out his hand to her, beseeching. "I am a creature of mischief, Natasha. As surely as the thread of _wyrd_ is spun, so I create chaos; so I play games. It is in my nature." 

She waits, listening. He takes a deep breath. 

"For you," he says, "I can stop."

Natasha, torn between standing her ground and running for the comfortable weight of her gun in her hand, feels her heart jolt. She stares at him, taken aback. "What?"

"For you," Loki says steadily, "I will stop. I will give you my oath to treat with you honestly. I shall not toy with you, I shall not use and discard you. This I will swear, if you ask it of me."

"You're serious," she says. As far as she can tell, Loki is; his hand is still held out to her, a trace of fear in his eyes, hidden under a veil of calm.

"Yes," he says. "I am."

Again she looks away. "I play games, too."

"It would be boring if you didn't," he points out, and she smiles unwillingly.

"I guess so," she says. She looks down. "You'd seriously give that up. For me."

"Not happily," he says with a shrug, candid. "But yes, I would." With a wave of his hand, he adds, "A mortal lifetime is nothing to a god."

"Wow, that was really sweet for a second," she mutters to herself, a smile tugging at her lips. Loki catches it, and sighs in triumph.

"So?" he asks. Natasha considers him, thinks of what she had told Bruce: _it's going to blow up in my face at any moment._

S.H.I.E.L.D. could have arrested her the instant she took Clint's hand. When the Black Widow kissed the Winter Soldier for the first time, he easily could have killed her, turned her in to their handlers, strung her along to see if she'd crack. She sold herself to the Red Room to save the life of someone she loved. Natasha's life may have been constructed by others, but it all hinges on the decisions she makes for herself, the risks she's willing to take. 

When Loki appeared in her flat, she didn't shoot him.

"You don't need to swear," she says. "I believe you."

Loki blinks in surprise, a pleased glow flushing his cheeks. He doesn't try to hide it. "Do you?"

"Yeah." In two quick moves she's on the bed again, kneeling over him in imitation of her earlier position. "Because you can't lie to me."

"Is that a challenge?" he asks, and his voice breaks on the last syllable, his eyes fluttering shut as she grips his throat.

"Did I say can't?" she inquires archly. "I mean you won't."

Of this, she is certain, and Loki smiles, a small, quiet smile.

"No, I won't," he promises, and then, just as she expected, that smile takes on a cunning gleam. "For now."

_Good enough_ , Natasha thinks, satisfied, and leans down to kiss him. To prove her point, she digs her teeth into Loki's lip, and he sighs and trembles beneath her.

Perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> Now with [fanart](http://doodleigh.tumblr.com/image/52707154406) by doodleigh on tumblr! (Probably NSFW, but no nudity.) It is absolutely wonderful and I adore her for it. ♥


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